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“Actually, there used to be a Happy Ink,” Morrow said, somewhat guiltily. “It was a stationery shop. Their stuff wasn’t bad. Middling quality, at best, but they had a few nice inks. I heard that the name was why they shut down in the first place. Too much confusion with the mother corpo’s name.”

“Sure. Yeah. That all hangs together. You being a huge statio nerd, I mean.”

Morrow frowned. “You’re one to talk. I’ve seen your home office.”

I winced, thinking about the massive mess that had spilled beyond the desk in my apartment. Then a thrill blossomed around the general area of my hips when I remembered that Morrow actually had set foot in my apartment, and vise versa. Standing within dangerously close reach of each other’s beds both times, too.

I sucked down the melted ice water at the bottom of my cup, tossed it in the garbage, then nudged my head toward the charm shop, grumbling, “Shut the fuck up, Morrow,” under my breath.

“Never,” he said, nodding at the shop. “Check that out. I must have missed the banner up front.”

“Oh, so it’s opening day? I guess all this action isn’t really that unusual. A big sneaker or console drop, you’d have all these people swarming a store, too. Except — huh. Well, that’s different.”

“What is?” he asked.

I pointed at the sidewalk just outside of Happy Links. “All these people walking out. They don’t look as excited as when they walked in. They barely look pleased with their purchases.”

We studied the crowd — mostly women — wearing admittedly very cute golden charms around the stylish chains on their wrists. I craned my neck to look at one lady’s bracelet as we stopped just short of the storefront. Her charms included a gift box, a poodle, and an ice cream cone. Super cute. Shit. Maybe I wanted a charm bracelet, too.

“I guess I don’t see how this is relevant,” Morrow said. “They bought the thing that they wanted. The shopping itch has been scratched.”

So he noticed the difference, too. There were still people with flushed faces and dazzled eyes filing into the store, not as many as when we’d spotted the shop from the boba place, but still enough to pack Happy Links to capacity.

But everyone walking out was wearing a dazed expression, as if suspended in a blissful trance. Not alarming, exactly, the way they smiled dreamily to themselves and gazed off into the distance, except — why did all those smiles look so eerily similar?

“That’s what I’m saying,” I whispered as another entranced woman brushed past my shoulder. “Shouldn’t they be excited about what they bought? Squealing? Celebrating? Look. If a video game I pre-ordered arrives, I’m hitting the gas on Old Betsy so hard I’m this close to accidentally slamming into a brick wall.”

Morrow pursed his lips. “They look like satisfied shoppers to me. Uh, marginally satisfied, I suppose.”

“Okay, think of it this way. You’re in line to buy Carly Rae Jepsen tickets on a website.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Tread lightly. I told you to be very careful when you invoke her name.”

“Shut up. So you watch the progress bar, and you make it to the purchase page, then score front row seats. What do you do?”

His cheeks flushed as he lived out his fantasy, clearly imagining the scenario. “I would punch a wall so hard I’d break my knuckles. Point taken.”

I gestured at Happy Links again. “So why do they look like that? All dreamy and zombified? Explain.”

A beautiful Black man shambled out of the store, someone I almost didn’t recognize because I usually saw him as a beautiful Black woman instead — at night, in the darkness, working behind a bar.

Morrow elbowed me in the ribs. “That’s Anita Cocktail, isn’t it? The drag queen bartender at Club Debussy?”

I knew I was right. I waved my hand in his face. “Anita? Anita Cocktail? You bought some charms, too?”

“I’m out of drag, stupid,” he drawled. “Call me Ambrose. And yes. I love Happy Links. What a fine selection of charms for the charming.”

Dangling from the chain around his wrist were a cartoonish burlap bag of money — complete with tiny dollar sign — and a cocktail glass, among other things. Annoyingly, temptingly cute. I squinted at the store, fighting back the urge to stroll in and spend.

Before Morrow or I could respond, Ambrose turned on his heel and ambled on down the sidewalk.

I pointed at Ambrose’s back. “See what I mean?”

“You don’t suppose it’s a certain someone’s influence,” Morrow said. “You know. Our crimson friend.”

“No. Theodore Morrow, don’t you even start with that shit.”

The Goddess of the Valley. Was she back?